


SAW 2020 Collection

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly Appreciation Week, SherlollyWeek2020, multiple tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: My contributions to Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020. See notes at the beginning of each chapter for details.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89
Collections: Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020





	1. Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Bed-Sharing. This was supposed to be light-hearted and fluffy, but it turned into a little bit of a feels trip. I always seem to come back to TFP, and personally, I’m alright with that. Anyway, I'll let you read now.

_Two hundred forty-nine, two hundred fifty, two hundred fifty-one…_

Molly suppressed a sigh as she mentally counted the quaint fleur-de-lis stencil paintings on the ceiling in order to pass the time. Sleep would have been preferable, it being half four in the morning, and the end of nearly twenty straight waking hours. Paris was a bit quieter than London at this hour, and the expensive, king-size bed far surpassed the discount double mattress in her bedroom at home.

And yet, despite all this, she could not sleep. And the blame for that lay squarely on the shoulders of the man in bed beside her.

_Two hundred seventy-seven, two hundred seventy-eight…_

It was supposed to have been an easy case. Find the missing teenager, return her to her excessively wealthy parents, and be on their way. Honestly, she didn’t know why he’d asked her to come along in the first place. And when she brought it up, he’d given his usual, “I prefer to have a second pair of eyes,” excuse. She’d let it slide, knowing that was as good an answer as she would ever get from him.

Then, of course, the missing girl turned up dead, and the simple case went from a four to a nine-and-a-half.

_Two hundred ninety-two, two hundred ninety-three…_

Of course, the enraged father had immediately offered double the pay for Sherlock to find and exact revenge upon whoever had killed his daughter. Molly couldn’t fault him for that, it was a dreadful thing to lose a family member. If the cause of her father’s death had been another person, rather than cancer, she might have asked the same of Sherlock.

Whether or not he would have accepted, she couldn’t be sure. Back when she’d first met him, probably not. But now…?

_Three hundred and five, three hundred and six…_

“Molly, you’re thinking too loudly.”

She shut her eyes, annoyed. “Sherlock, you made me lose count. I only had two rows left.”

“Four hundred and eighty fleur-de-lis,” he supplied immediately. “Really, Molly, all you had to do was calculate the area–”

“Yes,” she cut him off, “but that wouldn’t have taken as long.”

“Exactly. Then you would have been satisfied knowing the number, and could have gone to sleep much faster.”

She sighed loudly. “I was counting them because I _can’t_ sleep.”

“Why not?”

She finally opened her eyes and scowled up at the confused detective. “One bed, Sherlock? Really?”

The pucker between his eyebrows deepened. “It’s more cost-efficient.”

“Says the posh boy with a trust fund.”

One eyebrow shot up at that remark. “‘Posh boy’?” She said nothing, but continued to scowl at him. “Molly, there really were no other options—”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes there were, Sherlock. Don’t pretend you don’t know I speak French.”

“I didn’t, actually.”

Ignoring his lie (or was it?), she went on, “The concierge said they had two-bed rooms available, yet you picked a room with just one bed. And don’t give me that ‘cost-efficient’ nonsense, because this is one of the most expensive hotels in Paris, which on its own is one of the most expensive cities in the world. If you really wanted to pinch pennies, you would have picked another hotel.”

He blinked slowly at her, opening his mouth as if to rebut her, but thought the better of it and closed it again. Molly took advantage of his rare silence, and spoke again.

“Sherlock… I know you said you’d prefer not to talk about it… but it’s been three months since Sherrinford, and I have to ask—”

“I meant it.”

It was Molly’s turn to be speechless. “You… you mean…”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I meant it. I _mean_ it. And despite the three uneventful months behind us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I left you…” He swallowed hard. “If I left you in London, I might lose you.”

Molly’s eyes prickled, even as a smile spread across her face. “You bastard,” she whispered.

Sherlock winced, but met her eyes hopefully. “I don’t think I can pretend anymore, Molly,” he said. “I don’t _want_ to pretend that you mean any less to me than you do.”

Licking her lips, Molly leaned closer, delighted when Sherlock mirrored the action. “What do I mean to you?” she asked, her eyes straying to his lips.

He didn’t respond right away–she hadn’t really expected a verbal answer anyway–but when they were close enough to feel one another’s breath, he surprised her again with his whispered response.

“ _Everything_.”


	2. Molly Wins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: Fake Dating / Secret Dating / Undercover as lovers / etc. I picked Secret Dating... and took it a step further.

Sherlock paused outside the door to the lab, hearing voices within. The voices themselves were not what gave him pause, they were easily recognizable as Molly and John. Rather, the subject matter was what took him aback.

“…Anyway, he’d love to meet you,” said John. “If you’re available Friday, that’s a good day for him, but he’s pretty flexible, too.”

Sherlock’s first instinct was to be annoyed, even angry, but with his knowledge of certain facts, and certain recent events, that instinct passed fleetingly. Instead, he pressed a fist his mouth to avoid laughing aloud, as he waited for Molly’s reply.

“Oh…” she faltered a moment. “Well… John, that’s… that’s very nice of you, but… you see, I’m already married.”

A moment of stunned silence followed that declaration. “You… you’re married?”

“Mm,” Molly replied.

More silence, then, “…Right. Well, I’m thrilled for you, of course, but… who exactly…?”

John left the question hanging in the air, and Sherlock made the decision to step in. With his usual dramatic flair, he pushed open the door and strode across the room, directly toward Molly. As her gaze lighted on him, a dazzling smile stretched across her face. He smirked, picturing the look on John’s face, but not sparing him a glance just yet. He had more important things to do at the moment.

Like kissing his wife senseless.

“Hello, darling,” he murmured as he cradled her head in his hands, then slanted his lips over hers. She eagerly responded, clutching the lapels of his Belstaff, pulling him closer still. For several moments, he lost himself in the heady sensation and endless pleasure of Molly’s sweet little mouth. After far too short a time, in his opinion, Molly released her grip on his coat and broke their kiss. He opened his eyes to give his best pout, but seeing the devious smirk on her face reminded him of the other presence in the room.

And the look of utter bewilderment on John’s face was well worth it.

“Ah, good morning, John,” he greeted affably, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to speak. “What… the hell…”

“Ten quid, wasn’t it, Sherlock?” Molly prompted, holding out a hand.

John sputtered in confusion. “But… I… is this some kind of joke?”

“Not at all, John,” said Sherlock as he reached for his wallet. “Molly and I are, in fact, married. We eloped just after Sherrinford. And we had a bet as to how long it would take you to figure it out. As you can see…” he waved a ten pound note in front of him, before placing it in Molly’s hand, “…Molly won.”

“Too right, I did,” she beamed, standing on her toes to plant a loud kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, darling.”

John sighed in exasperation. “Bloody hell, I need new friends.”


	3. A Coat Closet in Rio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three: Locked in a room / trapped in a small space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had a hard time with this, for some reason. I mean, there are only so many ways to do this trope, and each one has already been done, quite deliciously. But I refuse to back out of another challenge! So, here’s to fluffy repetition!

“Molly—”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“ _No_ , Sherlock.”

He huffed in exasperation, an action she felt more than saw, considering their current predicament. Locked in a coat closet, the only available light coming from the space under the door, and not much light at that. And despite the tropical climate, there were an astounding number of coats crammed inside, leaving very little room for the captives.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke again, despite her repeated warnings. Hearing the genuine remorse in his lowered voice, Molly did not interrupt him this time. “I swear, I didn’t plan this. Believe me, this is not how I expected our honeymoon to go.”

“You didn’t seem terribly sorry this morning,” she grumbled. “And I thought, ‘Oh, we’re being spontaneous, how romantic!’ And then, suddenly, I’m shoved into a coat closet—never mind that we’re in bloody _Rio de Janeiro—_ when you and I are supposed to be celebrating our marriage!”

“What would you have me do, Molly? Tell them, ‘Sorry, no, I can’t help you find your missing business partner, I just got married’?”

“Of course not!”

“Then _what?_ ” he shouted, and they both winced at the volume. After a pause, he sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m sorry for the shouting, I’m sorry for the situation we’re in.”

She blinked once. “I’m not angry because we’re stuck in a closet. Yes, that may have been the metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back, but that’s not the reason.”

“What _is_ the reason, then?” he all but begged, then she felt his fingers brush along the sides of her arms, leaving a trail of goose flesh in their wake. Even as angry as she was, his touch still affected her. Bastard.

Molly leaned in and allowed him to put his arms around her, locking her own about his waist. “You didn’t _tell_ me,” she mumbled against his shirt. “You didn’t tell me there was a case, you just…” she trailed off, not sure how to finish her sentence, and knowing he would understand.

“Ah,” he realized. “Old habits, I suppose.”

Molly lifted her head to look at him—though, of course, it was still so dark that she couldn’t see much more than a vague outline. “I knew what you were when I agreed to marry you, Sherlock. I knew what you were long before that. And I fell in love with you _then_.” She lifted a hand, tracing the line of his jaw. “I would never try to change you, I hope you know that.”

“I know,” he nodded. “Though you have, in fact, changed me. For the better.”

Smiling, Molly pulled his head down, resting her forehead against his. “Next time we’re on holiday, and there’s a surprise case that happens to pop up… just tell me, yeah? Be honest with me. That’s the only way we’ll ever make this work.”

Sherlock bent his head to press a kiss to her lips. “I promise.”

“Good. Now how the hell do we get out of here?”


	4. Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: “This person won’t stop flirting with me, please pretend to know me?”

Sherlock downed another glass of Adnam’s Rye, his jaw clenching involuntarily as the spicy liquid made its way down. The buzz came on fast, a welcome relief from the tedium surrounding him. Of course, no one else saw the dull display for what it was; the rest of the world believed this—the dancing, the noise, the endless gyrating—to be the height of entertainment. Including John, his flatmate, who was currently off carousing with the worst of them. Sherlock hadn’t seen him since their first drink, and didn’t anticipate seeing him until tomorrow morning, hungover and irritable.

“There you are, Sherlock!” a feminine voice called from behind him.

_Feminine?_ Sherlock didn’t have any girl friends. Frowning, he turned to see the owner of the voice, only to have a pair of arms abruptly encircling him before he could see her face. Then she surprised him further by whispering, “Please go along with this. I can’t get this pervert away from me.”

He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol starting to take effect, or if he was even more desperate to escape his boredom than he realized. Either way, his arms wrapped themselves around her tiny waist and pulled her in close. “Which pervert?” he whispered back.

The girl relaxed against him. “Dark hair, denim jacket.”

With a subtle nod, Sherlock pulled back, and she followed suit. The practiced smirk he’d intended to wear suddenly froze in place. Two enormous brown eyes stared at him over a lightly freckled, upturned nose. Her curled, chestnut hair hung to her shoulders, the somewhat frayed edges suggesting she had cut it some time ago, and had not liked the result. He wondered what she might look like with much longer hair, perhaps to her waist. The image that thought conjured sent a bolt of heat coursing through him.

He was attracted to her. _Lord above_ , was he attracted to her! She was _beautiful_ … and somehow familiar.

Sadly, Sherlock’s attention was diverted as the aforementioned pervert finally made his appearance. He looked completely sauced, utterly dimwitted, and randy as hell. He eyed the girl as though he were a dog (which he was) eyeing a particularly juicy cut of meat (which she was _not_ ). Then he noticed Sherlock, and sneered.

“Friend of yours, love?” the pervert drawled.

_That did it._

“Boyfriend, actually,” Sherlock corrected, looping one arm back around her waist, and gently tugging her toward him. She complied without resistance, even put an arm around him as well. “Going on three months now.”

His face fell. “Boyfriend?”

“Very _late_ boyfriend,” the girl interjected with a teasing scowl up at Sherlock. “Now, I believe you owe me a dance.”

Sherlock grinned, and offered the pervert a shrug. “Women. What can you do? Excuse us.” And with that, he took her hand and swiftly led her into the throng of inebriated dancers. Once safely in their midst, he placed one hand at the small of her back, using the other to take hers. Right on cue, the music changed to a slow, sultry melody. Sherlock pulled her as close as he could, cheek to cheek (or rather, his chin against her temple, considering the height difference). Across the room, the pervert watched their dance, crestfallen, before making his way toward the exit.

“Mission accomplished,” he murmured.

She sighed, her breath fanning across his clavicle in a way that sent another bolt through him. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

He pulled back to look her in the eye. “Bit unfair, you knowing my name when I don’t know yours.”

“Molly,” she offered with a little smile. “We have chemistry together.” Her eyes widened as she realized what she’d just said. “No! I mean the class! We’re in the same chemistry class. Prof-Professor Colburn’s class.” She cleared her throat softly, looking anywhere but at him.

“Ah, yes, now I remember,” he nodded. “You tend to sit at the front.”

“Mmhmm,” she squeaked.

Sherlock smirked. “Pleasure to meet you, Molly. Now,” he stepped back to dramatically twirl her, before leaning her back into a dip. Molly let out a peal of laughter that produced bolt number three, and finally met his gaze. “Would you care to see if we have _that_ kind of chemistry as well?”


	5. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: Friends to lovers / Rivals to lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regency!lock, because I can.

Molly craned her neck to see through the crowd gathered at Almack’s. She nervously fidgeted with the dance card hanging from her wrist. There was only one man whose name she truly wanted to be there… and he was _late_.

Somehow, over the course of the season, she had gone from despising him and his arrogance, to seeing, and loving, the heart beneath the pompous facade. It had taken quite some time, to be sure. Their first encounter had gone terribly wrong, as she had overheard a conversation between him and his brother at the start of the season. He had, within earshot, called her silly, immature, and entirely too plain. Molly quite lost her temper at that, and came up with some… _creative_ adjectives of her own to describe him. She felt quite certain, had she not been a woman, they might have come to blows. As it was, he scowled at her with barely concealed rage, and stormed off.

Throughout the season, they unconscionably sought one another out, engaging in a kind of war, each attempting to outwit the other. Molly was pleased she had been able to hold her own, and had even beaten him a time or two.

Things began to change, however, when her friend, Mary Morstan, had gone missing. Mary also happened to be the fiancee of Dr. John Watson, _his_ closest friend. In an instant, the man had gone from disdainful and rude, to wildly protective and determined. It was this horrible event which allowed her to see his mind truly at work, and she could not help but be entranced.

He soon recovered Mary, in the hands of James Moriarty, whose intent was to force her into an elopement, securing her sizable dowry.

From that point, her opinion of the surly detective shifted, and gradually improved. And now, here she was, nearly desperate for his company. Flushed and frustrated, she gave up her search, instead moving to the veranda for a bit of fresh air. She leaned her gloved hands upon the balustrade, heaving a sigh as she lifted her eyes toward the stars.

“Looking for me?” a familiar voice drawled from behind her.

Molly smiled to herself, before schooling her features into a playful smirk, which matched the one she saw on his face when she turned. “It is crucial, I believe, to always know where one’s enemy is, lest he take you by surprise.”

“Indeed,” his eyes danced. “An excellent tactic, to be sure. Have you any more tips for survival?”

“Perhaps,” she said coyly.

His eyebrow shot up. “Will you not share them?”

“It would be unwise to share my methods with the enemy, do you not agree?”

He chuckled softly, but otherwise offered no reply. Molly waited, her gaze drifting. Just inside, she caught sight of Mary and Dr. Watson dancing together. She smiled once again, grateful for her friend’s safety, and for the love with which her intended showered her.

“Miss Hooper?”

Molly’s attention returned to the man before her, and immediately noted the change in his demeanor. His smirk was replaced with furrowed brows, his eyes cast down, and his shoulders hunched. Could it be possible that he was… nervous?

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” she prompted.

His piercing gaze met hers, and a wave of desire washed over her. How she loved those eyes! And now, being more open and vulnerable than she had ever seen, they were all the more beautiful.

“I do not wish to be your enemy,” he finally spoke, subtly enunciating each word, as if he were weighing each of them before speaking them. “I had hoped… we might negotiate a truce.”

Molly’s breath caught in her chest, and she swayed a bit, leaning against the balustrade again. Before she could offer a response, he spoke again.

“However, if that is not agreeable to you, then… I surrender. Wholeheartedly.” He stepped closer, his eyes roaming her face. “I have been a blind fool, and can only offer my sincerest apologies… and my heart.” His throat worked on a swallow. “For it is yours, Miss Hooper, and always will be.”

She smiled at him through the happiest of tears, and placed a hand over his heart. Through the layers of clothing, she could just make out its erratic pace, beating in time with her own. “And mine is yours ”

Relief flashed across his face, and in the next moment, she was swept into his arms, and became the recipient of an enthusiastic kiss. There would surely be many battles ahead, and their life together would not always be peaceful. But this she knew with absolute certainty: As long as they fought side by side, they could conquer anything.


	6. Warmth and Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Six: Huddling for warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost went smutty with this one, but it didn’t suit my mood. So I went for fluff instead. There’s always room for more fluff.

The door closed with an echoing _clang_ , and both Molly and Sherlock whipped around to stare in horror. They shared a look, and bolted for the door at the same time, but of course, Sherlock was there first (damn him and his long legs and cat-like agility). He tried the latch to no avail, and sighed.

“Locked?” Molly asked.

He nodded. “No way to unlock from inside.”

The reality of their situation dawned on them, and their gaze met a second time, lingering a bit. They were locked in the freezer of a popular restaurant, having been there investigating a trail of deaths whose only link was this place. They’d just found some crucial evidence when the door had shut, and locked. The temperature was uncomfortable already. Soon, the hypothermia would set in, then the grogginess, then they would drift off to sleep… permanently.

“What do we do?” she hissed, trying not to panic.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, then growled low in his throat. “No service.”

“Brilliant,” Molly deadpanned.

He dragged a hand across his face. “Well… John at least knew where we were headed, and he does have a tendency to overreact when he can’t reach me. There’s a decent chance he’ll come looking for us.”

“A ‘decent chance’?”

“It’s the best I can do at the moment,” he sighed. “In the meantime, we may as well get comfortable.” He sat on the floor, opening his coat, and looked at her expectantly.

“What are you doing?”

He rolled his eyes. “Obviously we’ll have a better chance if we share body heat.”

“Oh,” she breathed, heat blossoming beneath her cheeks. She inched over and sat beside him, letting him envelop her in the warmth of his Belstaff. Molly grit her teeth as a heavenly smell surrounded her, the smell of _him_. This was not good for her sanity.

It wasn’t long before they were both shivering, the shared heat only doing so much. Molly closed her eyes, trying to force herself to breathe evenly, without success. The panic was beginning to set in, making her tremble all the more.

“Molly, stop,” Sherlock said in her ear, his voice and his nearness causing an entirely _different_ sort of shiver. “There’s no need to panic.”

“We’re going to freeze to death, I think that’s a damn good reason to panic.”

“We’re not going to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t lie to me.”

He huffed in exasperation. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”

“You?” she scoffed. “Ever the realist, and _now_ you decide the glass is half full?”

“If it gets you to calm down, yes.”

“It’s not working.”

Sherlock huffed again, then abruptly grabbed her by the waist, turning her to face him, and settling her on his lap. Straddling his lap, more accurately. Well, that was one way to warm her up. She gasped at the flash of heat and desire, avoiding his eyes for fear of what he might find in hers.

Of course, he had nothing of the sort on his mind. He pulled her more snugly against him, folding his coat around them both. Molly’s arms went around his torso, and her head found its way tucked under his chin. It did seem a bit warmer, she supposed. And despite her reaction just moments ago, being with him like this put her quickly at ease. She could feel his pulse in his carotid artery against her cheek, the steady rhythm a welcome reminder that he was still alive and well. After all he’d been through, she couldn’t help but be grateful to have him, in any capacity.

“Molly?” he murmured, his lips buried in her hair.

“Mm?”

There was a pause, then he took a deep breath, and…

 _Footsteps_.

She felt him tense in the same moment that she did, and they held their breath, listening to the sound. Molly swallowed thickly, hovering between hope and fear. One of Sherlock’s hands drifted from her waist, exposing part of her back to the cold air, making her shiver against him. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a cocked gun. _Oh, God…_

The door opened as loudly as it had shut, and she felt Sherlock relax. “John,” he greeted, and Molly sagged against him in relief.

***

It was nearly an hour before Molly made it home. Greg had turned up not long after John, along with the rest of NSY, and Sherlock had jumped into action, providing details and deductions as per usual. At one point, she had attempted to leave, but Sherlock insisted, for whatever reason, that he would see her home when he was finished.

Finally, with all questions answered and all reports given, Sherlock steered Molly toward a waiting cab. He slid in beside her and gave the cabbie her address, and they were on their way.

“You really didn’t have to see me home, Sherlock.”

“Bit late for that,” he countered.

He had a point. “Well… thank you. For this, and for calming me down earlier.”

Sherlock didn’t answer for several moments, only speaking when she had given up waiting for a response. “Did I ever tell you why I chose your flat as one of my boltholes?”

Molly frowned, puzzled by the change in topic. “I… don’t know if you did.”

He kept his eyes trained ahead as he spoke. “Sometimes, even I need a break from the noise and the confusion. Sometimes, I need a place where, if only for a short while, I can turn my mind off. A place of… peace,” he finished, his brow furrowing, as if that weren’t quite the right word for it. Then his head turned, and his eyes met hers across the dark cab. “And for me, that place… is with you.”

His words settled over her, and she blinked rapidly as the tears threatened. “Oh,” she managed weakly.

Sherlock smiled almost shyly. “I suppose it’s selfish of me to wish that I could be the same for you… but then, I _am_ selfish.”

Feeling suddenly brave, Molly scooted closer to him, keeping her eyes on his as she moved. She threaded her fingers with his, delighted to feel him return the gesture. “I think _home_ is the word you were looking for. And mine has always been wherever you are.”

Their hands remained entwined for the remainder of the cab ride, and Sherlock refused to let go as they went inside her flat. They silently made their way into her bedroom, shrugging out of their coats and taking off their shoes, before climbing into bed together. Sherlock immediately wound his arms around her, pulling her flush against him, and her arms encircled his torso for the second time that night. And there they stayed, huddled in the warmth of home, until sleep and dreams of each other claimed them.


	7. The Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlolly Appreciation Week, day 7: Your favorite headcanon.

Sherlock slowly made his way up the stairs to 221B, eyes half-closed from the exhaustion of his latest case. Having spent the better part of a week focused entirely on the case, he was more than ready to catch up on sleep.

When he opened the door to his sitting room, however, the sight that greeted him rather violently woke him up. There sat Molly Hooper, reading _The Feminine Mystique_ in his chair, hair piled haphazardly on top of her head, wearing a pair of thick-frame glasses and his aubergine shirt… and nothing else.

She looked up and smiled sweetly. “Oh hello, Sherlock. Another case solved?”

Not taking his eyes off her, he closed the door behind him, and took three long strides towards her. He yanked the book out of her hands and swallowed her protests in a hungry kiss. To his satisfaction, her hands twined around his neck, making it easier to lift her off her feet. Her legs wrapped around him, and he rewarded her with a swipe of his tongue along her clavicle. The delightful sound she made sent a rush of heat through him, and he paused his ministrations in order to concentrate on reaching the bedroom.

“Cruel seductress,” he growled against her skin.

Molly giggled, her fingers raking through his hair. “Says the man who jumped me while I was in the middle of reading.”

He planted another quick kiss on her lips before setting her on the bed. “If you were really interested in reading, you would have mentioned it by now, and you certainly wouldn’t be looking like _that_.” As he spoke, he made quick work of his shirt and trousers. “You had a very specific plan for tonight, and made damn sure it went exactly as you wanted.”

She beamed at him. “Well, almost.” As his brow furrowed, she toyed with the top button. “You’re still talking.”

“Minx,” he murmured, and then neither of them spoke for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes this year's Sherlolly Appreciation Week! Sad to see it go, but as always, looking forward to next year!


End file.
